Is it normal that i love destruction and go by the name of a fictional character?
I remember my parents died early when I was very young. I don't even know how young I was back then. I suppose somewhat close seven. They have written their testament long before. My mother was a barmaid and my father owned a pharmacy, which I believe is not common these days. Small fish would be eaten by the bigger. When they'd die I should own what was left of their belongings. The money and the pharmacy with the flat above.
After they died those "friends" of them would live with and take care of me. They did also run the pharmacy. I don't know if this was legal. I guess it was not but I didn't mind then. I tried to help out there as much as I could but I was just a small child. Little did I know then that they were only after the money.
One day, I remember, I stood behind the counter and waited for customers. It must have looked really sad. The neighbour's wife, who went around with my parents and took care of me at times, came and asked for the medicine of her husband. I jumped from the stool and went to the rear to bring her what she ordered a few days ago. I should have asked for his advice as he was a lawyer but I never minded. I can't believe how incautious I've been! Well, she asked how I was feeling and if I needed some help I could always count on her. Then she left. One of my "uncles" called me to the rear for help. Then I remember being dragged into a corner, partly undressed and pushed into a crate. And this crate was brought somewhere else then. And hell it was cold there!
It felt like hours until they would move me from there and put me on the seat of a car or something. I fell asleep there after hours of trials to escape and pleading to be let out. I was so tired, even the crate felt cosy.
I woke up when a strange unfriendly woman tried to open the crate with what I suspect to be a crowbar. She called me "another mouth to be stuffed", grabbed me by the "filthy" hair and pulled me inside the home where she pushed me at another younger woman and told her to take me upstairs for a bath.
It was then that my short life at this children's home started. And though I did like Ms. Huxley, I truly despised ol' Mrs. Alby. The life at the home could be best associated with work and discipline but when Mrs. Alby wasn't present it became a place of hope for all of us lost souls, who have been doomed a life of poverty and solitude. All of us were either abandoned or became orphans by accident or intentionally. Mrs. Alby wouldn't mind our stories. For her, we were cheap working hands. Slaves of a sort since we weren't paid anything. Food wasn't something that we deserved but something we needed to keep working. I didn't want to work like that. And when I would hide and be found sooner or later by that old man who worked there too that day, he would pull me by the ears to Mrs. Alby and she would shout at me I shall not sell her any dogs. What I have thought I was doing, she would ask. And when I croaked back that I was not her slave she would thump me twice for every backtalk. On these days I would spend the night in a cabinet and food was something I wished for.